


if it's not too late, tell me what i gotta do

by silentmoons



Category: GOT7
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentmoons/pseuds/silentmoons
Summary: There's so much that goes unsaid between them. Sometimes Jaebeom doesn't know what to make of it.
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB/Mark Tuan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ppalgan7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ppalgan7/gifts).



Here, hidden in the safety of his own dimly lit studio, Jaebeom always finds himself perilously closer to the opposite side of the unspoken line he does not dare to cross.

It’s easy to pretend. When no one else is around, when it’s only the two of them—almost too easy, no consequences to be thought of, no repercussion to be taken into account. Here, hidden in the safety of his own dimly lit studio, it would, it could, be so simple to get out of his chair, to stand in front of Mark and pull him in, trace his lips across his unshaved jaw, the long line of his neck.

And yet: there's invariably so much that is left unsaid between them. Sometimes Jaebeom doesn't know what to make of it.

As it is, he settles for observing Mark play a shooting game on his phone, body curled up on the big cushy couch behind Jaebeom's mixing station. The game is loud enough to muffle the playlist floating gently from the speakers, and Jaebeom says, no real bite in his words, "Yah, you're being annoying."

Mark looks up from his phone to flash Jaebeom a mischievous grin. Of all the nice things he _definitely_ has stacked in his closet, he's wearing his tattered purple hoodie instead, old but cosy, and Jaebeom wants to poke fun at him, like his black sweater is not as ancient. "What's up your ass, then? Wanna go stretch your legs for a little while? We can grab a coffee on our way back."

This part is uncomplicated, effortless, throwing on their winter coats to stroll around the block in pleasant silence. It has become second nature, by now, this facade. Meeting up at the studio, late night coffee runs, tip-toeing around the fact that they both know what each other taste like in the morning after a sleepless night, the way they enjoy being touched, what they sound like in desperation, in exhaustion, in complete bliss. And, on rare occasions, something that is harder to define. Something they don't name.

Jaebeom steps out of the expensive 24-hour Café to see Mark light a cigarette, and hands him his order with a scrunched up nose. "Didn't you quit that two months ago?"

"Blame Park Jinyoung for my relapse." Mark smiles, absentminded. "He was stressing over a role, and next thing I know we're both smoking three packs each in a night, right on his balcony."

Jaebeom sighs, but doesn't dwell on it. Jinyoung's influence or not, Mark has his own burdens to carry, and the mauve pouches under his eyes tell Jaebeom he has been feeling really pressured for some time, too. He's well acquainted with Mark's patterns of self-destruction when the weight of the world gets too heavy to bear. He wishes Mark would let him share the burden. He would carry the weight and not think twice about it.

Up until a few years ago, Jaebeom had constantly been tormented by thoughts of self-doubt and the familiar bitter taste of regret. He had failed as an idol at a quite young age. He had failed his parents, his greater supporters, and he had failed Jinyoung, his teammate, his dongsaeng, and he had failed their fans. He had failed _himself._ It had gotten to the point where his anger had been eating him alive. Pulling himself together and starting anew had been as difficult as his mortifying imminent crash.

Now, though, he's—happy, he supposes. Not being stuck in transition, in limbo hell, is already enough to half mitigate most of his concerns, at least career wise. He loves what he does, loves producing and composing for others, for the company, and, even if hesitantly at first, for himself. His side music is a hobby, a passion, and an entire persona he has created to work on private projects with more freedom of choice.

He still has fans, somehow. Not a myriad of devoted admirers like Jinyoung, who has become one of Korea's sweethearts after landing his first main role a couple of years ago. And not like Mark's increasing number of enthusiastic followers, popular foreign ulzzang remade actual model. Jaebeom can't say he envies them, as he's very fond of his privacy. Being in the spotlight, he's learned, means having a life dissected and picked apart and exposed raw, often warped to the point of unrecognition, ugly parts sewn together by harassment and lies to create something monstrous of its own.

Caught up in his selfish musings, he notices Mark hailing a taxi and pushing him to the backseat a bit too late. He asks, eloquently, "What?"

"I'm tired. I can have him drop you off at the studio, if you want, but I thought you might wanna come home with me?"

The facade crumbles ever so slightly. Jaebeom shrugs, exhales softly. "Okay."

* * *

Here, hidden in the safety of Mark's gloomy bedroom, all pretenses turn to dust. Stolen moments of intimacy like this have Jaebeom vibrating in his own skin, insides rattling in expectation, in uncertainty, in shyness, like his organs are readjusting and recreating new forms to themselves, all of them twirling inside out, molding new room for feelings and emotions that shall not be named. How long have the two of them existed in these hushed, furtive spaces? How long has Jaebeom's treacherous heart tried its chances of crawling out of his chest, out of his mouth, to lay itself bare for Mark to get hold of it and do as he pleases?

"What's on your mind, Beom-ah?" Mark whispers, pointy teeth dangerously close to Jaebeom's throat. He squirms anxiously, having Mark's attention all on him after longing for it for weeks.

Jaebeom kisses him first, and a bubble of laughter forms in his chest at the fleeting murmur swaying in his head, _welcome home, I've missed you terribly, please stay, don't leave me again._ These are stubborn feelings—they demand names. _I've_ missed _you. I_ want _you to_ stay. So Jaebeom deflects, "Your dick. Your dick is what's on my mind, take your damn clothes off."

It's dark, and the street lights cast contrasts of light and shadow across Mark's face. Jaebeom catches sign the second his serious, at times harsh, features turn painfully tender, so tender it reminds him of the burning ache of a fresh open wound. Jaebeom hates how it has the absolute absurd power of making him feel exposed, stark naked with his clothes on. There's a teasing tone to Mark's low voice, though the affectionate glint is still in his keen eyes, the tentative vulnerability. "Do you trust me, my love?"

"No," says Jaebeom casually, and Mark gives a kittenish pinch to his stomach. 

Jaebeom knows the shape of him, the taste of his milky-soft skin, where to find the beauty mark on his thigh and the collection of scars from his childhood adventures, but his favourite part is the constellation of faint freckles adorning various stretches of skin on Mark's body, memories of a lifetime of California summer sun-kisses. They're light freckles, vague little things Mark is conscious about, sometimes. Jaebeom likes making a show of counting them, of pressing pecks to them, earning him a shove, and then a painstakingly, madenning slow blowjob.

Mark is quiet once Jaebeom is able to breathe properly again. He rests an open palm on Jaebeom's stomach. "I'm visiting my parents for Christmas. I might not be back until mid January."

"Alright," says Jaebeom. There's a nauseating twist in his stomach, maybe his chest—his heart is erratic, slamming against his breastbone. "I should go home. I—yeah, it's almost time for the sun to rise."

Mark nods. Jaebeom thinks Mark watches him scramble for his clothes, like the dignity he has left, if any, can be found under the clutter of mixed clothes.

He's not sure if he does. He can't bring himself to look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's currently almost 4am and this...got a little out of hand. I'm so sorry, Ppalgan7; you were expecting a kinda nice Markbum and here am I, too caught up on Jaebeom's internal conflicts. This is getting away from me, and I'm truly sorry
> 
> *The movie they're watching at the beginning of this is called _Moonlit Winter_ , and I've thought about it ever since I watched it three nights in a row

Here, body curled and with his back leaning against the arm of Jinyoung's expensive couch like a cornered animal, even the mellow glow of the sophisticated ambient lighting reminds him of blinding track lights, of being pushed right into the center of the limelight, and for all the wrong reasons. The words of the movie are still playing in his head, stuck on repeat, _I used to write you a letter whenever I had a dream about you, but I couldn't send any of them—so things I wanted to tell you just piled up in my heart,_ and the few beers he's had start sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach, threatening to burst and spill out.

Jinyoung stares at him blankly. Jaebeom knows it's expected of him to give any sort of reaction, good or bad, and Jinyoung can be very patient when he's trying to make a point. "Are you alright, hyung?"

"I'm fine," he says, albeit more irritable than he had intended to sound. "Yah, why the fuck do you keep choosing sad movies for us to watch? Last time was _Dear Ex,_ now this?"

Jinyoung looks thoughtful at the mild confrontation, lips pushed out in a childlike pout. Jaebeom is so used to the adult version of him, broad, fully grown into his body, his teenage angst turned into attentiveness, into caring, his stoic expressions widened to the fullest after so much media training. He often forgets Jinyoung had been the youngest for the longest time, for most of his life. It's times like these, when his eyes are a little unfocused and unguarded, that Jaebeom remembers.

"Jinyoungie." Jaebeom sighs. "What is it that you're trying to tell me?"

"I think you know," says Jinyoung petulantly. His accusatory eyes, squinted in exasperation at Jaebeom, soften ever so slightly. "I don't want you to look back one day and realise you regret everything."

"Both of those movies are about very different situations," Jaebeom protests, kicking a foot to jab at Jinyoung's side.

"That doesn't change the fact that they're about regret," Jinyoung insists, extremely quiet. He takes a hold of Jaebeom's foot and squeezes it lightly. "And about longing, about what could have been if only—if only—hyung. How long are you going to pretend this is working out?"

He's right, of course he is, but Jaebeom jumps off the couch in sudden anger, nerves aflare. He walks up to the balcony door, where he's met by the sight of a concrete and glass city, endless lights everywhere. Jinyoung cracks open the sliding door to light a cigarette, and waits for the fight.

Jaebeom would have taken the bait, once. He would grit his teeth, and that gesture would have been a clear indication of his anger, of his horrible temper, once. Now he's too bone-achingly tired and world-weary, and any vestige of irritation fades quickly. "What do you want from me, Jinyoung-ah?"

"I want to know what you really want, hyung. I want you to allow yourself some happiness. And not a guilt-ridden one."

He leaves around two in the morning, and there are no trains at the subway stations at this hour, no buses circling the city. The taxi driver is polite but uninterested in any sort of conversation, which Jaebeom is grateful for, as he unlocks his phone and scrolls through his private texts with Mark. Mark's last message dates from three days ago, a certainly drunken _Merry Xmas JB_ at 02:45. It had been almost seven in the evening in Korea, and Jaebeom had been in the middle of the first round of drinks with friends before lying low in his studio again until he couldn't bear it anymore. The _read at..._ receipt under Mark's text gnawed at him every day. 

It's too late, now. Any response would sound forced. And this, them, whatever they are: this should be easy. Though Jaebeom is beginning to learn that he might have the definition of _easy_ all wrong.

 _Dear Mark,_ he types. Deletes it. Locks his phone.

He watches the urban scenery rush by through the window. It's winter, there's no visible moon, no snow, and he misses Mark desperately, so desperately he can feel a dent in his chest, hollowed out, replacing the things he has always wanted to say—now all gone, pile crumbled.

* * *

Here, sitting at the makeshift kitchen table of his childhood home, forehead pressed to the surface, Jaebeom feels unfairly small. His mother is stirring seaweed soup by the stove, humming to herself, and it's all so familiar it feels like poking a bruise intentionally to chase after the ache. It's early still, pale, watery winter light seeping in through the window above the sink, painting the room in colours reminiscent of faded pictures. And here, sitting at the makeshift kitchen table of his childhood home, Jaebeom has just turned 27, and is sulking like a toddler.

"Your bad mood is affecting the whole house," his mother says, throwing him a puzzled look over her shoulder.

The food smells amazing, curls of aromatic steam above the stove enveloping the room, and his stomach grumbles. He straightens his spine to bow at her in repentance. "I'm sorry, eomma. Thank you so much for treating me for my birthday. I'm truly grateful. I'm sorry I made you think otherwise."

"Come help me with this, it'll distract you from your quarter-life crisis woes, silly boy."

When his father stumbles into the kitchen, they share their breakfast meal in quiet contentement. Jaebeom's mind is entirely elsewhere, a timezone away—they have barely spoken at all since Mark had landed in the U.S. and had texted to let him know, _Alive!,_ and yet, despite time differences, Mark had been the first one to send him birthday wishes, a selca of himself attached to the message. Jaebeom likes to indulge the idea that it had been supposed to mean, _here's my face if you miss it, because I sure as hell miss your ugly, grumpy one._

He stays for lunch, but takes the weekend-packed subway back to Seoul. Before he can leave his parents' house, his mother pulls him aside gently. She touches his face, a melancholic smile on her lips, and mutters, "My handsome Jaebeomie. Why do you look so sad on such a beautiful day, my love? What's bothering you?" He chokes on his own breath, refuses to cry, "I'm alright, eomma. Just a little tired. You don't ever have to worry about me." She tsks, "You'll understand one day, when you have your own family. There's not a single thing a parent wouldn't do to protect their child."

The conversation unsettles him to the point of vertigo, and he ends up getting off two stops before he's supposed to.

His phone _pings!_ with a new text from Mark. He doesn't open it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first three drafts to this last part kept getting so heavy & sad & ugh. I didn't want that—so here's the result. A little silly, a little dumb. I hope it's okay, and I hope you've enjoyed reading this thing. I hope I made your request some justice. Thank you for all your kudos and comments and support! They really mean a lot ❤

Here, snug under his heavy comforter, heater on full-blast, and with only a nightstand lampshade on, Jaebeom allows himself to wallow in his self-inflicted misery shamelessly. The alcohol from two glasses of white wine consumed on an empty stomach running through his bloodstream has him lightheaded and drowsy, and he nuzzles his pillow sleepily as he reaches for his phone.

It's already past midnight, but his brain is on the risky side of muddled, sticky and slow, and he can't bring himself to recall the time difference between Seoul and L.A. His thumb instinctively pinpoints the video call icon on his chat with Mark—and in an instant, Mark's soft, beautiful face welcomes him, a fond smile half smushed by his own pillow. He has his shades drawn shut, that much is obvious. It's still enough for Jaebeom to see him clearly, to notice his puffed eyelids, his dishevelled hair.

"I was assuming you were set on ignoring me forever," says Mark, his usual teasing tone tinged by his hoarse voice. It sends a shiver down Jaebeom's spine. He's missed him like this, sluggish in the mornings, sluggish after a nap, languid movements nudging Jaebeom awake, trapping his mouth and coaxing it open into tender make out sessions, where the facade would threaten to rupture under so much of what they didn't name.

"Mark," Jaebeom whispers. He doesn't know where to start. "I wasn't ignoring you. I was just. Confused. I guess."

Mark's image trembles and blurries on screen when he stretches, and Jaebeom flushes at the low, raspy sound he lets out, long and sweetly enticing. "It's okay. Jaebeom-ah. I know you need a little time, sometimes."

Jaebeom has had a lot of time to think. Thinking hasn't made anything _easy._ "I don't know what I'm doing."

"In general or about us?" Mark hums.

"I think we need to talk."

Mark hums again, eyes more alert now. "I suppose we do."

And here, snug under his heavy comforter, an ocean away from Mark, Jaebeom experiences the entire charade collapse, the act unveil, "I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I think part of me already knew it was a lost cause the moment we had our first fight and we couldn't even understand each other."

"Took you long enough to admit it." Mark chuckles. "I was afraid you—Jaebeom. Jaebeommie, haven't you noticed? There has never been anyone else but you, you jerk. And there wouldn't be anyone else if it wasn't you, either."

"And you didn't say anything?!" Jaebeom protests, sobering up. He sits up to rest against his bed frame.

"Well, did you?"

"I was scared!" He laughs, feeling a tiny bit hysterical. "I _am_ scared! So much is at stake! And, and, and—"

"You couldn't have been that oblivious," says Mark, a frown of disbelief set deep on his brow. "Could you? What do you think we've been doing all this time? Did you think I've just been stringing you along?" His voice goes quiet, then, "Is that what you think of me?"

"No! Of course not! Mark. Mark, I would trust you with my life. Don't you know?"

"Guess we're just really shitty at communicating, huh," Mark whispers. His eyes are warm and welcoming as he stares at his own phone screen, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. Jaebeom's attention is drawn to it, and he automatically licks his lips. "I miss you like crazy. And, for the record, I'm in love with you, too." In English, he says, "I love you, dummy."

"I wish you were here," Jaebeom mumbles. Entranced, he follows the way Mark pokes his tongue out to lick at his bright red bitten lip, the way he opens his mouth to sigh softly. Jaebeom gulps.

"I wish I was there, too." He keeps his tone so quiet. Gentle. Lies on his back, blinks lazily at Jaebeom. "You deserved to hear that in person. You deserved an _I love you_ face to face. Your face after hearing those words—I could just eat you up. Do you know what I'd do to you? Oh, the things I'd do to you, Jaebeommie. My pretty boy. My good boy."

"Mark," Jaebeom whimpers, heart jack-hammering in his chest, flush spreading from his face to his chest to everywhere else. "Mark, please—"

"You're imagining it, aren't you? Should I paint a more vivid picture, baby?"

" _Mark._ Your _family—_ "

"My bedroom is locked." Mark giggles, _actually_ giggles, the familiar mischievous glint in his eyes spelling trouble. Jaebeom shudders. "And they don't understand Korean."

"T‐there's still so much we need to talk about," Jaebeom stutters. He swallows a surprised moan when Mark turns his phone lower so the camera can focus on his free hand disappearing down his sweatpants. "Oh, God. Fuck."

"And we have all the time in the world," says Mark breathily. "Now, are you gonna be a good boy for me and do as you're told?"

* * *

Here, at the very core of the crowded airport, surrounded by strangers, by family reencounters, by loud friends, by sweethearts, by first time visitors. Here, in late January, when it has snowed lightly earlier in the evening, and the full moon hovers high in the sky. Here, at the very core of the crowded airport, Mark walks slowly towards Jaebeom, luggage in tow, to stand in front of him and say, _There you are. I've missed you something terrible. I'm glad I'm finally, finally home._


End file.
